


Call and Response

by St_Salieri



Series: Dean/Buffy/Spike Threesome!verse [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/St_Salieri/pseuds/St_Salieri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean needs a solo hunting trip to clear his head after the events of the SPN S5 episode <i>The End</i> (and post-series BtVS).  What he finds - <i>who</i> he finds - will give him exactly what he needs.  SPN/BtVS crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call and Response

 

Cleveland smelled like a sewer.

Dean hunched his shoulders against the cold night breeze and tried to squirm into a more comfortable position. He'd trailed the band of vampires as far as this cemetery - _a fucking cemetery, of all the stupid cliche things,_ he thought sourly - and watched them disappear into something that looked like a small mausoleum. A quick case around the structure showed no evidence of another exit, so he'd settled down behind a gravestone about thirty feet away to watch the door. He'd counted three going in, and three he could handle, maybe - as long as there were no more inside. Lacking a handy grenade or flamethrower, it was probably best to wait and see how many came out rather than attempt to storm the castle.

The breeze blew cold again, finding the edges of his jacket and curling around his neck to leave goosebumps in its wake. He controlled his breathing the way he'd been taught as a boy, counting the breaths and listening for signs of movement from within the crypt. All quiet on the vampire front, at least for the time being. His hands twitched restlessly, but he repressed the urge to scout closer to the door. There may be victims inside, but there also might be more vamps than he could handle.

Not for the first time, he wished he'd allowed Sam to come along on this side trip.

It would have been nice, hunting together like old times, focusing on ganking some good old-fashioned monsters. Something decidedly non-angelic, for a change. Something they could kill.

But Dean couldn't look at Sam anymore without seeing him in a cheesy white leisure suit, his face smooth and unbroken, his voice soothing and compassionate, his eyes older than sin and empty as all fuck. He couldn't listen to Sam without hearing his father whispering in his ear - _you have to save him, Dean, it's the most important thing in the world, please save Sammy, kill him, you have to kill him_. And he knew it was hurting Sam, the way he kept pulling away and avoiding eye contact, but he just couldn't fucking deal with it all right now.

A sudden cramp shot up his leg, and Dean winced and rubbed the muscle. He stretched himself out, then froze when he heard the sound of voices coming from the path that wound among the graves. He didn't think it was the vampires, which meant... _shit_. Civilians.

He huddled behind the gravestone and watched carefully as a pair of figures - a man and a woman - appeared from behind a clump of willow trees, chatting together casually as if they didn't have a care in the world, and who in their right mind would be walking around a cemetery at night as if they owned the place? The man was shorter than he, wiry, dressed all in black with a shocking bolt of white-blond hair that just screamed _I couldn't be trying any harder to be a badass_. The girl - woman - looked to be around Dean's age, maybe a little younger. She wasn't exactly his type - too slight, too blonde - but she was cute enough, from her fuchsia scarf to what looked like the most ridiculously impractical set of high-heeled boots he'd ever seen. The pair of them sauntered along the path together, the moonlight gleaming on their bright heads. The man rumbled something unheard to the woman, who laughed and elbowed him in the side. In another moment, they had approached closely enough for Dean to hear their conversation.

"...and I'm going to have Beth and Rhonda take Andrew to Tampa with them, because he's seriously driving me nuts right now," the woman was saying. "He's started answering 'By your command,' whenever I ask him to do anything. I think he needs a vacation."

"Have Rhonda take him to the beach and bury him," the man suggested in a British accent. "With any luck, it'll take the rest of the trip for him to dig himself out."

The two of them paused opposite the crypt, and Dean bit his lip in frustration. _Just keep walking, you morons._

"This is the place," the woman said, digging in her coat pocket and bringing out a short piece of wood tapered on one end. "How many are we expecting?"

"Dunno," the man said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his long leather coat and eying the sky thoughtfully. "Maybe six? Hey, do you think we'll have time to hit the bar when we're done?"

The woman looked disappointed. "Is that all? That's no fun." She sighed heavily. "Fine. I call dibs on Big and Ugly. He ruined my new shoes the other day."

 _Fuck._ Not just civilians, but some kind of wannabe vampire groupies. Damn his luck. Now he'd have to go out there and save their asses, alerting the vampires to his presence in the process. Like this night couldn't get any better. He got to his feet and stepped out from behind the gravestone, wincing as the cramp in his leg finally eased.

The man and the woman froze as soon as he stood, turning as one to follow his movements. The man took a step forward and sniffed the air, then relaxed. _The hell?_

Dean fought off a sudden wave of exhaustion. He hadn't slept well in what felt like weeks, and he didn't have the time to pussyfoot around a couple idiots looking to get themselves killed by playing in cemeteries at night. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and grabbed the ID he carried around as a just-in-case measure.

"CPD," he said in a bored voice, holding it up and then quickly folding it away before they could get too good of a look at it. "I'm going to have to ask you to move along, please."

The pair exchanged glances, then looked back at him.

"Is there a problem, officer?" The woman was giving him a skeptical look, twirling the piece of wood in her hand. Was that supposed to be a _stake_? Time to get these two out of here before things turned fatal.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he said smoothly. "Just a couple of drug dealers we chased in here, but they may have weapons. I suggest you clear the area as quickly as possible." Dean looked over at the man, trying to instill some kind of chivalric response, but the guy merely pursed his lips slightly as if were biting the inside of his cheek.

"Uh huh," the woman said, her attention seemingly distracted between Dean and the crypt. "You know what? I have a better idea. How about _you_ clear the area? In fact, I...I saw a couple of guys over near the east entrance who totally looked like drug dealers. You should go check them out."

"Look, lady," Dean growled, stepping forward. The woman's mouth dropped open, and she turned to her companion.

"Did he just 'look, lady' me? Oh my God. I _knew_ this coat made me look too old! Next I'm going to start getting the ma'am treatment, and I might as well just start picking out my retirement home!"

Dean gaped at the two of them, but before he had a chance to say anything further a rumbling growl came from the crypt.

The three vampires stalked out of the small structure...followed by three more. They were some breed Dean had never seen before, with misshapen, lumpy foreheads and glowing eyes - maybe vampires possessed by demons? Was such a thing possible? The one in front gave a widemouthed grin at the sight of the three humans in front of him.

"Look, boys," he said. "They do delivery here."

Dean froze, then consciously forced his muscles to relax as his mind whirled through his options. There was no way he could take six on by himself, and his first duty was to get the other two to safety. If he could hold them off for a minute or two, it might be enough for them to get a running start. And then...well, he'd be running right behind them. Because there was no way in _hell_ he was going to become monster chow in the middle of the smelliest cemetery in Cleveland. Sam would never let him live it down. Reaching back to the gravestone behind him, Dean closed his fingers on the machete he had left laying on its top, raising it in front of him with a ringing rasp of metal against stone. He had a couple of syringes of dead man's blood in his jacket pocket, but he figured the blunt approach was probably the best.

"Get out of here," he growled to the other two. He could see them out of the corner of his eye as the vampires approached, just standing there. Goddamn it, this was no time to freeze. "Run!" he barked, sparing them a glance.

The woman raised her eyebrow at him at the same time as she raised her stake.

"Oh, I don't think so."

And then the vampires were on them, and it was too late for anyone to run anywhere. Dean saw most of them rush past him to attack the two civilians, but he wasn't able to do anything but focus on the one immediately in front of him. The vampire was tall and stocky, and he looked like he might have been a bouncer in another life. He gave Dean a fang-filled grin, eying the machete as if it amused him.

"Is that for me?"

"You'd better believe it, asshole," Dean growled.

He ducked the vampire's punch, weaving under his arm and swinging out to graze the creature's side with the sharp edge of the knife. It was no more than a scratch, but it was a warning. The vampire's face twisted up in a scowl, and it came for him again. Dean let loose a couple of quick punches to the face and followed up with a kick to its knees, but the vampire backhanded him with a blow so ferocious it drove him to the ground and left his head ringing. He staggered to his feet, hearing the sound of fighting off to his left somewhere. God, those two were probably doomed, and it was all his fault. He felt his lip curl up in a snarl at the thought and charged the vampire, ducking under its arm again and coming up behind it. He planted a boot in the middle of its back and shoved it off balance, then followed up with a swing of his machete to the creature's neck.

The head fell free. The vampire's body wobbled on its feet for a moment, then dissolved into a shower of dust and ash.

"What the hell?" Dean breathed.

It was enough to distract him from the second vampire that came up behind him and grabbed him by the back of his jacket, hurling him forward to crash against the trunk of a willow tree. By the time Dean staggered to his feet, the vampire was in front of him. It grabbed him around the neck and lifted until Dean's toes just brushed the earth below him. It slammed his head hard against the trunk, and the machete fell from Dean's nerveless fingers. As he scrabbled at the hand around his windpipe, the vampire leaned in. Its cold breath washed across his cheek, and then a pair of fangs was tickling his neck. Dean closed his eyes as he fought for oxygen, kicking his legs fruitlessly. As the creature started to bite down, Dean bared his teeth in a grin of triumph. _Screw you, Michael._

And then the vampire was gone, yanked away, and Dean fell forward on his hands and knees and coughed until his breath was back. When he looked up, he saw the British guy fighting with his attacker. Dean froze - first in shock that the man was alive at all, and then in amazement as he watched the fight. The guy _couldn't_ be human. There was no way a normal person could move like that.

The blond man grabbed the vampire's wrist and stepped back, twisting fluidly and bringing the vampire to the ground with a thud. As quick as breathing he struck downward with another of those wooden stakes, plunging it into the creature's chest. It gave a roar and dissolved into dust, the ashes scattering in the breeze the only sign of its existence. The man grinned and tucked the stake into a pocket, then tilted his head at Dean.

"Not too bad with a knife," he said, and it took Dean a moment to realize that it was meant as a compliment.

"Thanks," he croaked, climbing to his feet. Fuck, he hated getting strangled. "What happened to your...?"

Dean turned to see the woman get thrown to the ground by one of the vampires - the last of them, it looked like. Unbelievably, the rest were either dead or run off. A surge of adrenaline shot through him, and he looked around wildly for his machete. As he dove for it, a firm hand closed on his arm, and he couldn't have shook it free for any amount of money. He turned in disbelief to the man holding him in place.

"What are you doing? Let me go help her!"

The guy already had a cigarette dangling from his lips, and with his free hand he brought out a lighter from his pocket and lit up.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," he said in amusement, blowing out a stream of smoke. "You don't want to get between the girl and her fun."

Dean turned back to the woman, certain he was about to see her get her throat ripped out.

She was back on her feet, facing off against the last vampire that must have been the one she called Big and Ugly, because holy crap this thing was Sam-sized, maybe taller. It snarled at her, one arm hanging at an unnatural angle where its shoulder had been dislocated. Dean expected her to cringe back, but she stood tall and proud in a fighting stance, stake clutched tight in her right hand and a smear of blood across her cheek.

"I'm sorry, are we not what you ordered?" she said sweetly. "You should really check the Zagat guide next time."

The vampire howled and charged her, and the woman waited with a smile on her face until she must have been able to feel its rancid breath on her cheek. Then she gave a backflip, and her boots caught the vampire under the chin and sent it crashing to the ground. It rolled to its feet and charged her, but she was already waiting for it with a roundhouse kick that drove it right back down again.

Dean watched as she fought the creature with a power completely disproportionate to a girl her size. She bobbed and weaved and flipped, all fluid grace and ease, and when she closed one delicate hand around the vampire's wrist it howled in agony as the bones cracked. With a cold shiver, Dean realized that she could have killed the thing at any moment, with little more effort than it would take to step on a spider. She was... _playing_ with it, as a cat played with a mouse.

"Amazing, isn't she?" a voice next to him murmured, and Dean twitched. He'd completely forgotten about the other man, as enthralled as he was in watching the girl fight. Had he really thought that she wasn't his type? Because right now she was probably the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

The woman gave a focused kick to the vampire's right ankle, and it went to the ground with a scream.

"That's for the shoes," she panted, then struck out at it with her stake, as quick as a snake. A second later, the vampire was dust on the earth.

The man next to Dean stood up in a creak of leather from where he'd been leaning against a headstone. "All right, Slayer?" he asked. _Slayer?_

"Peachy," the woman answered with a grin, then eyed Dean warily. "You okay, officer?"

It took Dean a moment to realize that she was talking to him. "Fine," he stammered. His mind was reeling, searching through his options, trying to figure out exactly what kind of being she was. Demon? Angel? Or something else entirely? He closed his hand on the small backup knife tucked into his pocket. He didn't know how much use it would be against these two - or even if they meant him any harm - but he felt better with the solid weight of it in his hand.

"What are you?"

He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, but...well, there it was. No use beating around the bush. The woman stood there in her ridiculous boots and bloody cheek and grinned as if it was the most natural question in the world.

"I'm a superhero," she said gravely, eyes twinkling at him.

Dean turned to the man next to him, then threw himself backward in shock and clenched his fist around the knife. The man's face had been transformed, and the craggy forehead and yellow eyes of a vampire stared at him underneath the helmet of blond hair.

"Relax," the man said through a mouthful of fangs, and Dean had no idea what a smirk would look like on a vampire, but he supposed it would look something like this. "I'm her sidekick."

* * *

The bar was too bright and too clean for his tastes. It was the kind of place that catered to the local college students, with its ironic hipster jukebox and pricey microbrews. But at least there were several pool tables tucked back into an alcove near a set of booths, and Dean found himself gravitating there immediately.

He still wasn't sure why he'd agreed to come along.

_"Come on," Spike said, clapping him on the shoulder - and now he knew both of their names, although he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking at how ludicrous they were. Spike's face appeared human now, fangs and yellow eyes hidden behind what Dean now knew was a facade. "You can buy me a beer in return for saving your life. Unless you're military." His eyes hardened, his hand tightening on Dean's shoulder almost enough to make him wince. "Are you military?"_

_"He doesn't like soldiers," the girl - Buffy - explained, brushing at her coat to remove the vampire dust. "It's a thing. Honey? Stop scaring him."_

And so he'd agreed to the beer, to his bemusement. It wasn't like he was desperate for company, and these two weren't exactly his typical choice for drinking companions, but part of him wanted to know more about them and how they'd wound up fighting vampires in a Cleveland cemetery. He didn't think they were hunters - at least, not like any hunters he'd ever seen. Even the female hunters he knew tended toward the practical work-boots-and-flannel look, and these two were nothing if not conspicuous in their black leather and colorful scarf. They were oddities, familiar enough that he could respect their fighting skills but weird enough that he was having trouble placing them in his hierarchy of Good Things vs. Bad Things.

And fuck it all, he deserved a break. It had been a long time since he'd settled down for a drink in an actual bar instead of swigging from his flask on a stakeout or slamming a six-pack in his motel room after a particularly hard case. He wanted a moment of normality, just a couple of people sitting around a bar and unwinding after a hard night's work. Dean, Buffy and Spike, first names only, just as he liked it. It was all fake, of course - he wasn't stupid - but it was nice to pretend.

Besides, he told himself, he should probably keep an eye on the vampire. The girl seemed to trust him, but there was no telling with these creatures.

Dean grabbed a pool cue while Buffy disappeared into a narrow hallway displaying signs for the restrooms.

"Play you for the first round?" he asked Spike, who shrugged agreeably and tossed his coat into one of the booths.

By the time Buffy reappeared, they were deep into the middle of the first game. Spike was good, Dean found, but not the best he'd ever played against. Per his usual modus operandi, he made a few easy mistakes and let Spike pull ahead of him, shaking his head good-naturedly and digging in his pocket for some cash.

"You want in?" he asked Buffy, holding out the cue. She shook her head and grabbed the twenty from him.

"Nah. I'm going to order. Besides, watching the boys play with their sticks is much more fun."

Spike barked out a laugh and swatted her on the ass. Her momentary glare could have frozen the bones of Lucifer himself, but she just sighed in fond exasperation and headed for the bar, making a rude gesture over her shoulder at Spike's shouted request for _some wings, love, if you wouldn't mind._

"So," Spike said, leaning up against the table. "How about we make things interesting?"

This was exactly what he'd been waiting for. Dean had been hustling pool since he'd looked old enough to get away with a fake ID, and he had the ritual down pat: 1) reluctant agreement, with a smallish wager, 2) a slightly better level of play, but not better than his opponent, 3) a loss on the second game, followed by 4) a much larger wager on the third, followed by some serious ass-kicking. The beers appeared and disappeared, and Buffy watched from the sidelines and heckled both of them indiscriminately. In the middle of the third game, Dean finally turned on the heat. Lining up his cue carefully, he let let loose with a well-placed shot that sent two of his balls into the pockets. Buffy applauded, and he gave a well-practiced shrug of false humility.

"I guess I had to get lucky sometime," he said with a grin.

Spike narrowed his eyes at Dean, and one corner of his mouth curled up in a smirk.

"Uh huh," he drawled. Then he stepped up to the table, took one glance, and lined up a breath-taking shot that cleared three of his own balls from the table. It was about a thousand times better than any shot he'd made yet, and Dean couldn't help the genuine smile that erupted. _Touché._

Spike shrugged. "Don't try to play someone who's been doing this for a hundred years, boy. Or is that the best you've got?"

And it was finally on for real, with only a few balls left on the table. Dean almost managed to take it, but in the end Spike sunk the final ball. Only Buffy's protestations of boredom - and the arrival of food - kept them from beginning another game right there, and they piled into one of the booths for wings and sandwiches. By the third beer, Dean was feeling positively mellow.

"You going to eat that, Slayer?"

Buffy made a face and smacked Spike's fingers away from her plate. "Get your own," she said. "I'm still hungry."

Spike peeled himself out of the booth with a pout and headed for the bar. Dean surreptitiously checked his wallet as the guy walked away - he knew a born scammer when he saw one - but it was still safely in his pocket.

"He really eats this stuff?" he asked Buffy. "I thought vampires were big on blood-drinking."

"Oh, they are," Buffy said. She was still nursing her first beer, as far as Dean could tell. "But Spike's always had a thing for people food too." She grinned at him and leaned across the table to whisper, "It's actually kind of cute. Don't tell him I told you that."

He laughed and shook his head, wondering again who the hell this girl was.

"So where'd you get the nickname?" he asked. "There must be a story there."

She looked confused for second. "Oh, you mean 'Slayer'? Not a nickname. Job title. Vampire Slayer." He must have looked skeptical, because she shrugged and took another sip. "And someone else who's never heard of me. I think I'm offended." Looking at the ceiling, she began what sounded like a recitation of some scripture. "Into every generation a Slayer is born. One girl in all the world chosen to wield the strength and skill to fight the vampires, demons and the forces of darkness, blah blah blah. It's a mystical thing. And they totally left out the part about the death and destruction and ruined clothes and having no life."

Dean shook his head. He'd never heard of something like this - his dad's journal hadn't even hinted at such a girl existing. He was tempted to write her off as some crazy chick with delusions of grandeur, but...he'd seen her fight, and whatever she was wasn't entirely human.

"Chosen?" he asked, focusing on that word. "Who does the choosing?" Buffy shrugged instead of answering, and he frowned. "And there's just the one of you?"

"Well, not anymore. Not as of a few years ago. Now there's lots of us. Again...mystical thing."

Spike had reappeared with more beer, and he passed one across to Dean who accepted it gratefully.

"There may be lots now, but she's still the best," he told Dean. "Make no mistake about that."

"You're sweet," Buffy told Spike, planting a noisy kiss on his cheek. "And not just because you know you'd be sleeping on the couch tonight if you said any differently."

On the surface they were like any of the young couples in the bar, all smiles and casual flirtiness. But Dean didn't miss the way Buffy's eyes scanned around the room as if reconnoitering possible threats, or the way Spike held his beer bottle as if it were a weapon. They both seemed relatively unmarked for people who had clearly been through many battles - a faint scar on Spike's eyebrow notwithstanding - and he wondered again at how old they were. Spike could have been anywhere between twenty and forty, but the guy had mentioned something earlier about "a hundred years". Was he for real? And Buffy...could he really trust the young exterior? Something about her made the skin between his shoulders tighten. He'd never claimed to have Sammy's psychic whatever, but he was a good enough hunter to know when someone wasn't what they seemed to be. These two were giving off vibes in spades.

"And what about you?" Buffy asked. "What's your story? Or do you regularly hang out in cemeteries pretending to be a cop?"

Dean grinned and gave the least specific answer he could think of. "Not much to tell. I've been hunting since I was kid. Not a...not a chosen thing." He waved his hand in Buffy's direction. "Family business, me and my brother. It's what I've always done."

And it was completely and entirely true, except that he didn't want to examine his own words too closely because he knew that sooner or later he'd have to address the knowledge that his life wasn't at all what he'd thought it was - that he wasn't just some guy hunting demons with his younger brother, that he himself was caught up in prophecy and callings and destiny and bullshit that he wanted no part of. He looked up and caught Buffy's gaze and felt a sudden wave of sympathy for her. Something in her eyes looked so fucking old, and he wondered exactly when she'd been saddled with her mystical shit job. Had she even been given a choice in the matter?

"Hunter, huh?" Buffy said, gave him a smile that made her appear ten years younger. "My title is totally cooler."

He laughed at that and moved the conversation to war stories - just regular hunts with regular creepy things, nothing involving vessels or destinies or fucking angels. Buffy and Spike shared a few of their own stories in return, and they were in the middle of a friendly argument about the best ways to contain a werewolf when Dean's phone rang. He glanced down at the display - _Sam_ \- and hesitated before letting it go to voicemail. Knowing his brother would harass him until he answered, he thumbed out a quick text message - _I'm okay. Vamps dead. Talk to you later._ \- and looked up to find Buffy watching him again.

"Was that your brother?"

He nodded, pocketing the phone. "I should have called him earlier."

"Younger brother?" she asked, then nodded at his silent agreement. "I figured. You have that older sibling look." She gave a crooked smile. "I've got a younger sister. And even though she's not in any danger these days, I don't think I've ever stopped worrying about her. It comes with the territory."

"Is she a Slayer too?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"These days, she's just a normal girl," she said cryptically, leaning up against Spike's arm. Dean wondered briefly what she meant by _these days_ , but chose instead to lighten the mood with a more pressing question.

"So, you're in charge of this army of superpowered chicks. Any chance you'd introduce me to one of them?"

Spike barked out a laugh of approval and reached across the table to clink his beer bottle against Dean's. Buffy rolled her eyes at both of them.

"A million times no," she said. "You're trouble. I can tell."

He batted his eyes at her and gave her his best smile, the one with a hint of a leer in it that he knew from experience worked on women from coast to coast. "Come on now," he purred. "I promise to be a good boy."

"Oh, it's not them I'm worried about," Buffy said with a twisted smile, raking her eyes down the front of him in a way that made him feel like she was looking inside him. "They'd eat you alive."

From there the stories morphed into a friendly game of one-upmanship, tallying up their respective kills. And if anyone had told him that he'd spend the evening discussing the mechanics of hunting with a (tame?) vampire and a freaking _vampire slayer_ who probably topped out at five foot nothing...well, we would have laughed in their face.

But the strangest part was, he was having a hell of a good time. There was something so relaxing about being able to discuss the hunt with people who knew what he was talking about, who had seen everything he had and probably worse, and who didn't look at him with those sad, serious expressions that Sam and Cas had been sporting nonstop for the past several weeks. It felt good to actually _laugh_ again, and to mean it.

"Shapeshifters," he said to Buffy. "One of the bastards even took my form before I took it down."

"Pretty good," she allowed. "Hmmm...well, the mayor of my town turned into a snake demon during my high school graduation, and I blew up the school to kill him."

"Nice," Dean said with a grin, and gave Spike a challenging look.

"Dragon," he answered. "Fifty feet long if it was an inch. Los Angeles. With a sword."

Dean tipped his beer in acknowledgment and thought for a moment. "Serial killer ghost."

"Cool," Buffy breathed, and shot back with, "Hellhounds."

He couldn't help flinching, just the tiniest bit, but he saw Buffy and Spike exchange glances. _Damn them._

"Hey, me too." He tried for easy, but he knew his throat was just a bit tight. He cleared it and took a long drink.

"Who'd you lose?" Buffy asked quietly.

Dean blinked at her, and the room was suddenly too warm, too close. He wondered if being the Slayer gave her psychic powers he didn't know about, because she was once again giving him that look that made him feel like she was seeing all the way inside him, the same one that Cas gave him from time to time. The thought sent a wave of fury through him, because swear to God, if she was lying to him and was actually some dicksmack of an angel messing with his head, he was going to tear her pretty little head from her body before sending her back where she belonged, permanently. She must have seen the look on his face, because she backed off immediately.

"So...I died," she offered up with a weak smile, clearly trying to put him at his ease, but it didn't fucking help because of course she had, _of course_ , and how the fuck had she known to say that to him? He looked up at her, and she gave him a bewildered look before her eyes got big and she exchanged another glance with Spike.

"So did you."

It wasn't a question, so he didn't bother to give it an answer. He shrugged, concentrating on peeling the soggy label from his beer bottle with a thumbnail. He couldn't look up at her, afraid she would be looking at him with some kind of compassion he didn't fucking deserve - not from her, not from anyone. He swallowed hard against the tightness of his throat and saw Buffy's hand inch across the table toward his arm. He froze, praying like hell that she pulled back because he didn't think he could stand it if she actually touched him right now.

She did pull back, and the three of them sat there in a silence that seemed to Dean to get heavier and more oppressive with each second that passed. He was about to make his excuses and escape - _nice to meet you, I've got an early drive tomorrow, keep it real_ \- when Buffy cleared her throat.

"So there's this Fyarl demon holed up a few blocks from here who's been giving us some trouble," she said briskly. "We were going to take care of him tomorrow, but...well, why wait?" She did touch Dean then, nudging his arm until he looked up at her and then waggling her eyebrows at him with an easy grin.

"So, you wanna go kill something?"

* * *

So apparently when Buffy said "demon", she wasn't fucking kidding around.

This was no hellbound creature locked in a human meatsuit, the only evidence of its presence its coal-black eyes and piss-poor attitude. This was a full-on monster, seven feet tall with bony shoulders, curling horns and piggish little eyes. A Fyarl, she'd called it.

Oh, and there were actually four of them.

The alley wasn't big enough for everyone, monsters and vampires and Slayers and all, so Dean pulled back and ducked into a nearby empty parking lot. One of the Fyarl followed him, as he'd intended, and he took a swipe at the creature with his machete as it rounded the corner. It howled at him and charged, so he quickly backpeddled and almost tripped over an empty beer bottle lying on the pavement.

The demon was quick, but it wasn't too bright. Dean was able to dodge it easily, although he was careful to keep out of the reach of its claws. He played with it for a few minutes, trying to figure out the best way to take it down. The bony structure of its chest and neck was intimidating, and he was tempted to bring out the gun he had tucked into the back of his jeans. But this was a major city, and the area had the slightly-bad-but-gentrifying feel that made him suspect that a gunshot would bring the cops round a lot quicker than he'd like.

Besides, he wasn't about to lose face in front of Supergirl. Did she even _have_ any weapons on her, aside from her pointy sticks?

Letting his mind wander around monsters was getting to be a bad habit. As Dean raised his machete against the creature in front of him, his wrist was caught and twisted by a huge paw. One of the Fyarl had come up behind him without his noticing - which was embarrassing - and apparently wanted to hold hands with him - which was even more embarrassing. Dean grunted against the pain in his wrist and kicked out at the thing's knees. It hooted in annoyance and responded by picking him up by the back of his jacket and tossing him into a wall about a dozen feet away.

He could feel the impact rattle through his bones, the roughness of the brick burning his skin as he slid down and collapsed at the base of the wall. Luckily he still had his weapon. He staggered to his feet as one of the Fyarl came at him, and he drove the machete between two of its ribs. It gasped blankly at him, and he gave the knife a vicious twist before he pulled it free. The thing fell to the ground with a wheeze, and Dean smirked in satisfaction. He looked up as a sharp crack echoed through the parking lot to see the second demon fall to the ground, its head at an unnatural angle. Spike stood behind it, and he gave it a kick for good measure as it collapsed.

"That's right," he said to it in satisfaction, then eyed Dean closely. "You all right?"

"Fine," Dean wheezed, trying to force air back into his lungs. His back felt like it was on fire, but his ribs and spine seemed to be in one piece, which was good news.

Buffy came jogging out of the alley, a light sheen of sweat drying on her forehead and a narrow cut across one of her cheekbones. She eyed the dead demons with a disgusted look on her face.

"See, this is why vampires are better. Poof, and they're gone. I like the poof."

"You sure about that?" Spike murmured to her. He laid his forehead against the top of her hair and whispered his finger against the bloody cut on her face. The look in his eyes was feral and yet, somehow, unbelievably tender. Buffy blinked her eyes closed and leaned back against him, and Dean had to swallow and look away from something that felt almost too intimate to witness. He started when Buffy laid a hand on his shoulder. He hadn't heard her walk up to him.

"You all right?" she asked, brow furrowed.

"Fine," he said with a shrug, wondering how many times he'd have to tell people that, but she frowned and spun him around with her strong little hands and poked at his back until he winced.

"Nice road rash," she said. "We should get you cleaned up."

"It's not a big deal," Dean answered, turning back around. "I can take care of it." He wished he had a spare rag to wipe the machete with before the guts dried on it, because cleaning blood-tacky weapons was a bitch and a half. He looked up to see Buffy frowning at him.

"You'll take care of it?" she said dryly. "You mean, you'll take care of the big gross bloody thing in the middle of your own back? I don't think so."

She tucked her hands into her pockets and walked to the entrance of the parking lot, looking back over her shoulder at him and Spike impatiently.

"You guys coming?" she asked, and disappeared around the corner. Dean gave Spike a look.

"Is she always like this?"

Spike huffed out a laugh. "Pretty much," he said fondly.

Dean peeled himself away from the wall with a groan - his muscles were already starting to tighten up in the chill breeze - and muttered the word _pussywhipped_ under his breath. He had completely forgotten about vampire hearing - or vampire _speed_ , for that matter - because an instant later Spike was next to him with a hand clamped around Dean's upper arm. Dean did his best not to flinch as Spike leaned in.

"Pussy like that?" Spike whispered in his ear, his words heavy and hungry. "You'd better believe it."

His fingers tightened around Dean's arm, and his smile was full of pointed teeth. He took the machete away and ducked his head under Dean's arm, taking some of his weight.

"Come on," he said. "We'll get you fixed up right."

The alley was close to the cemetery, which meant it was close to Dean's car. He popped the trunk open and dumped the machete in the back, looking around for the spare shirt he could have sworn he'd seen there earlier. His back was starting to feel uncomfortably sticky, and he needed something to lean up against. There was no way in hell he was going to get any blood on the seats, not after the cleaning he'd given his baby just a week earlier.

Spike whistled.

"Nice," he said, leaning down to look in the windows. He gave the tires a kick and looked up at Dean under his dark brows. "'67, right?"

Dean nodded, a small grin splitting his face. Spike may be a freaky Slayer-obsessed vampire, but at least he had good taste in American automobiles.

"Yeah," Spike said, petting the roof gently. "Can't go wrong with the classics, I always say. Back in Sunnydale, I had this sweet little...."

"Oh God," Buffy interrupted with a groan. " _Boys_. Can we at least hold off on the car talk until people aren't bleeding into the street?"

Dean shared an eye roll with Spike across the roof - _chicks, man_ \- and climbed behind the driver's seat, tucking the spare shirt behind his back to protect the interior. Buffy and Spike piled in next to him, and within a minute he was warm enough to stop shivering.

His motel was only about ten minutes away, and he couldn't help laughing a little at Buffy's wince of disgust at the place. Oh yeah, this one was high-maintenance.

And it was kinda turning him on, so he tried not to think about it.

"Come on in," he said, walking carefully into the room and finding the first aid kit he'd already dumped on one of the beds next to his duffel. Not that he'd needed two beds, not for this trip, but he was so used to traveling with Sam that he'd asked for _a room, two queens_ without even thinking about it. And once he remembered, he found he didn't really want to change rooms. This way, it was almost like Sam was hanging around just out of sight.

Crap, Sammy.

Dean fished in his pocket for his phone, barely noticing Buffy take the first aid kid from him and push him to sit on the bed. The phone wasn't broken, thank God - he spent too much money on cheap replacements as it was - and he checked to see if Sam had responded to his brush-off text from earlier. There was a new message.

_Whatever, dude. Is she cute?_

He laughed out loud at that and saw Buffy give him a quizzical look. _Hell yes,_ he thumbed back, then tossed the phone on the bedside table.

"My brother," he said to Buffy, who nodded understandingly. She came to kneel on the bed behind Dean, tugging gently at his jacket.

"Come on," she said. "Off."

She helped him remove the jacket - which was still in one piece - and the shirt beneath, which had been torn by his collision with the brick wall. Buffy tilted the shade away from the bedside lamp to get a better look at his injury, and Dean closed his eyes against the glare of the naked bulb. He hung his head down and let Buffy's fingers play gently across his back. He felt her get up and a second later heard the bathroom sink run. The bed dipped again right before the wet washcloth touched his back, and he winced and hissed in a breath.

"Sorry," Buffy said softly behind him. "There's some dirt and rocks stuck in here. I need to clean it up before putting a bandage on."

She worked silently on Dean's back, her fingers as strong as Sam's and more gentle than hands that powerful had any right to be. The room grew warm and Dean let his eyes drop closed again, his muscles relaxing as post-adrenaline lassitude crept over him. He listened to the sound of his breaths, in and out, the sound of Buffy's light breaths behind him, and the regular cloth-on-metal _swish_ from the chair where Spike was cleaning his machete for him. Almost too soon he felt Buffy smooth antibacterial ointment across his raw back and cover it with a large bandage, taping the edges down with practiced precision.

"There you go," she said quietly, her fingers lingering on his back and massaging away a knot that had formed under his right shoulder. He groaned his thanks, letting his head droop even lower, and gave himself up to the sensation of her fingers on his skin. He could never let himself go like this around Sam, he had to work _so hard_ at being strong for his Sammy, because he'd already let him down too often. But this girl, he didn't have to be strong for her. Dean suspected she was strong enough for both of them.

By the time he noticed that the pressure of her hands on his back was gone, she was kneeling in front of him, studying his face closely. Dean blinked at her, his eyes focusing on the cut on her cheek.

"Here," he said, reaching for the washcloth she'd abandoned on the bed next to him. He brought it to her face, then blinked in confusion. Instead of a bleeding cut he found a thin red line, blood already dried and crusting away. The damn thing looked as if it had already been healing for two weeks.

"Slayer healing," Buffy said, quirking the corner of her mouth up. "One of the package bonuses."

"Awesome," he breathed. No wonder her skin seemed so unmarked, although now that he was looking more closely he could see a faint silver-white line that ran across her forehead, and another one on her hairline near her right ear. As she turned her head, he caught sight of what looked like scarred bite marks on the side of her throat. Without thinking he reached out and ran a finger over them. Buffy shivered and turned to look at him, and it was then that Dean realized that the weapon-cleaning sounds from the other side of the room had stopped. Without turning his head he moved his eyes to see that Spike was staring at him, eyes dark and unblinking, fingers of his left hand whispering over the naked blade as softly as Buffy had touched his back. And to Dean's horror his own fingers were _still_ on Buffy's neck, smoothing over the scar and across her throat, and he couldn't seem to stop them.

 _Shit,_ he thought, vaguely horrified, but his brain seemed like it was a million miles away. _I'm going to get killed by a vampire for feeling up his girlfriend._

Spike blinked slowly, all predator, and there was something ancient and hungry in his eyes that made Dean's stomach curl in on itself. He relaxed back into the chair, muscles seemingly loose and languid, but Dean knew it was a lie, and that if he wanted to he could be across the room ripping Dean's throat out in about two tenths of a second.

Buffy made a soft noise and put her hand on his face, pulling his gaze back toward her. Her eyes were huge and bright in the lamplight, and Dean's traitorous fingers were still running up and down her neck. Slowly - so slowly, as he were a wild animal that might startle - she leaned into him, and her eyes took up his entire field of view.

And then her lips touched his, only a breath of pressure, and Dean shuddered as his own eyes slammed shut.

He held himself still as a statue, only moving his lips to taste the girl in front of him with nearly-chaste kisses, sure that every moment that passed was bringing him a second closer to his death at Spike's hands. But he couldn't look at Spike, not with Buffy's soft lips on his, the taste of beer on her tongue. She tilted her head and drew him in closer, and he heard himself moan deep in his throat when her tongue touched his. Something loose and liquid uncoiled deep in his belly and rushed through his veins, and the kisses were no longer anywhere near chaste.

It took a minute longer for Dean to find the strength to pull back, gasping and shaking, and he found his eyes drawn back to Spike's gaze immediately. The vampire still sat relaxed and unblinking, legs sprawled in front of him, and now he had a thumb tucked into the waistband of his dark jeans, his fingers curled around the obvious bulge of his erection. The sight of that alone should have been enough to make Dean's brain kick into gear and put a stop to these proceedings, but for some reason his brain wasn't exactly making its presence known. He held Spike's dark gaze for a beat or two longer, then deliberately turned back to Buffy and dove for her mouth, wrapping an arm around her slim waist. If the guy wanted a show, Dean would sure as hell give him one.

Buffy gasped, and the soft, wet sound was like an electric wire jammmed into his spine. He rubbed his nose against hers and bit at her lips, closing a hand on the back of her head and holding on more tightly than he would have dared with any other woman. But he knew she could take it, and take it she did until she rose to her feet in one fluid motion and climbed into his lap, straddling his legs. She carded her fingers through his hair and held his head firmly between her hands, tilting it just how she wanted it, and Dean relaxed his neck and let her do whatever the hell she wanted as long as she kept kissing him. He was hard and hot behind the zipper of his jeans, just from kissing, and he knew that Buffy must be able to feel it.

She pulled back to look at him, her eyes huge, and ran her thumbs over his eyebrows. Her brow furrowed, just a small wrinkle above her nose, and she opened her mouth as if to say something before shaking her head. Instead of kissing Dean again, she studied his face, running her fingers down his nose and across his lips and over his ears with a soft thoroughness that left him shaken. He wanted to crack a joke, something stupid to lighten the tension, but he could barely breathe when she touched him. The way she was just _looking_ at him left him feeling more exposed than he had in a very long time, and he closed his eyes and turned his head away from her.

"Don't," she said, pulling his face around until he blinked up at her again. But he couldn't take it, couldn't take her looking at him with such desire and compassion, because it was all a lie. She couldn't really see him, not the _real_ him, because there was no way she'd be able to look at him like that if she knew what he really was, what he'd done, how filthy and stained his soul was. And fuck, now his eyes were tearing up, and he'd never been able to control that particular physiological response, and he just wanted to die. He blinked furiously and felt a tear slide down his cheek, then managed to hold the rest at bay.

"You don't know," he found himself saying in a gravelly voice. "You don't know what I've done, what I've...I don't deserve...." And then his voice failed him entirely and he buried his head in Buffy's shoulder, tightening his arms around her waist.

"It's okay," she said. "Dean, it's okay." She said it over and over, fingers playing with his scalp, until she lifted his head and kissed him again with a thoroughness that left him breathless.

Except, Dean realized with a shuddering thrill, it wasn't Buffy's hands at all on his head.

Spike knelt behind him on the bed, and Dean had no idea when he'd left the chair. He held Dean's head and turned him into Buffy's mouth, and this had to be the strangest thing he'd done in a while and fuck if it didn't feel absolutely incredible. He was harder than he'd been in a long time, his skin hot and tight and oversensitive. Spike's hands lowered to Dean's throat, tightening slightly, but it only made Dean gasp and tighten his fingers in Buffy hair. And then those hands were on his face, turning him to the side, and he opened his eyes to see Spike's face inches away from his own.

He still had no idea how old Spike actually was, but there was something in his eyes that spoke of years of torment, both given and received. He could almost feel the demon inside Spike, something dark and twisted and famished, something that sang to him of hell. It was old and familiar, and it pulled at the darkness inside Dean with greedy fingers. But there was something else there too, something besides the demon, and that something was staring down out of Spike's sharp eyes.

"I know what you need," Spike said.

From this close distance Dean could see the sharp cheekbones, the full lips, the unnatural smoothness of Spike's pale skin. He lifted his gaze and looked Spike full in the eyes, and he could see the challenge in the other man's gaze. Dean lifted his chin in acceptance, a slight sneer curling his lips - _do your worst_ \- and Spike gave an absolutely filthy smirk of approval and fastened his mouth on Dean's.

And whoa, Spike was a good kisser, and Dean had to just sit back and let himself be kissed for a minute before his brain caught up enough to let him process what was going on. Spike's lips were firm against his, his teeth nipping at Dean's lower lip, and Dean shuddered before doing his best to take charge of the kiss himself. Fuck, it was weird, but so so good. And sure, maybe it wasn't technically the first time he'd kissed a guy - although that time in Baton Rouge shouldn't count, he'd been so wasted - but it felt like his very first kiss all over again.

When Dean broke away to breathe, he noticed that Spike wasn't panting in return. He was about to be offended, and then he realized that he'd not only been kissing a guy but a freaking _vampire_ , and that vampires didn't need to breathe. Spike was giving him a smirk again, his mouth all wet and pretty, and Dean narrowed his eyes and prepared to kiss that stupid smirk right off his face when he noticed that Buffy was still sitting on his lap.

And her shirt was gone.

At this rate, he wouldn't have to look at porn for months. The memories of what was happening right here would be more than enough. Buffy arched her slim shoulders and let him look his fill, her nipples tightening under his gaze. Spike gave a hum of approval and fasted his mouth on the side of Dean's neck, and holy shit he was going to have one hell of a hickey there. Spike's hand went to Buffy's breast, tweaking the nipple, his paleness a striking contrast to her smooth golden skin. Dean reached for the other breast and fondled her, and Buffy let her head fall back with a gasp, her hips weaving a sinuous rhythm against Dean's erection. Her hand tightened on Dean's shoulder almost strong enough to bruise, and goddamn it felt amazing.

Buffy raised her head and caught Dean's eyes boldly, taking hold of his wrist and pulling it away from her breast. He almost whimpered, and she grabbed his other wrist and quick as a flash pinned his hands against the bed. Her grip was unbreakable, but he somehow knew that she'd let him go if he really wanted it.

"Do you want this?" she asked in a low voice, her fingers tight on his. "Do you want _us_? I want you to be sure."

Dean looked from her to Spike, and if his blood got any hotter he was going to fucking combust. Whatever sensible part of his brain that would have told him he was getting in over his head had long since left the building.

"Yes," he said hoarsely, looking at both of them. "Fuck, _yes_."

And then they were both on him, holding him down and raising him up and forcing cries of ecstasy from his mouth, and Dean was reborn.

* * *

The sunlight painted a dappled pattern on the far wall, and Dean gazed at it for a lazy minute before he realized he was even awake.

It took another minute before he realized where he was, and what he'd been doing the night before.

Dean rolled over and checked the clock on the bedside table. Holy shit, 11:15. He hadn't slept that long in approximately forever. He could taste the sleep in his mouth, feel the ache behind his eyes that let him know he'd slept about twice as long as he was used to. He gave himself up to a luxurious full-body stretch, feeling a wonderful soreness that reminded him of the way he'd let his body be used last night, and buried his face in his pillow to try to cool the heat of his cheeks.

He sat up and let the sheet pool around his waist, peering around the room. As he'd suspected when he'd first woken up, he was alone. He was tempted to think that last night had been some kind of freaky dream, but he knew that it wasn't - not with the way his body ached, and how the room smelled of sex, and the way the linens of one of the beds had been practically torn to shreds.

Oops. Dean thought his face might crack if his smile got any wider.

He noticed another smell then, one that had been tickling at his brain for a few minutes, and his eyes widened as he took in the cup sitting on the table. Thank fuck, _coffee_. And still hot, he realized, as he gulped at it quickly enough to make his eyes and nose run. _And_ a bag of doughnuts. He moaned in approval and took the coffee and doughnuts back to the ruined bed, bringing along the piece of paper the coffee cup had been holding in place. It was a note, he saw, written in a girlish scrawl.

 

> _Dean,_
> 
> _I'm sorry, we had to go. Spike had to leave before the sun came up. I waited around for a while, but I didn't want to wake you. You looked like you needed the rest. We're heading to Detroit this morning. You know how it goes - another day, another apocalypse._
> 
> _I put my number in your phone. USE IT!! Or I will track you down and hurt you. You're a pretty great guy, you know that?_
> 
> _Buffy_

 

She had obviously run out of paper at this point, and he squinted to make out the postscript written in tinier letters.

 

 

> _P.S. Whoever you are, whatever you're done, you're worth it. Remember that._

 

Dean's throat tightened, his eyes welling up again - Christ, like he hadn't been crying enough lately - and he took a long sip of his coffee to bring himself under control. He reached for his wallet to tuck the paper away, and it was then that he realized that there was writing on the back as well - a more masculine hand, in a surprisingly elegant script.

 

 

> _You owe me $50 from that last game, you wanker. You'd better believe I'll be back to collect._
> 
> _:)_

 

It was the stupid little smiley face at the end that did him in, and Dean's stomach shook with the force of his laughter. By the time he was finished giggling like a little girl, his stomach was cramped and his eyes were watering and he felt like he'd lost about twenty psychic pounds. His cell phone rang, and he snatched it up without even looking at it and answered it with a grin. He already knew who it would be.

"Hey, Sam."

There was a pause on the other end, and he just _knew_ he was sending off some kind of just-gotten-laid vibes over the phone. Sammy was uncanny at picking up shit like that. He could practically see his brother's familiar moue of disapproval.

"Good night?" Sam asked dryly, and fuck it all but Dean couldn't stop smiling.

"Yeah," he said lightly. "So, you still in Omaha?"

"Uh huh," Sam said. "No new leads so far, and the research well has run dry. You want me to meet you over there?"

Dean looked around the room and shook his head, rolling out of bed to walk to the shower. "No," he finally said. "I'm done here. I'll be leaving in just a bit, so you should expect me around midnight."

And as he roared out of Cleveland - windows down, brisk breeze stiffening his wet hair, stereo blasting the Sex Pistols tape that someone had left in his front seat - he felt like he might just be able to take on the end of the world after all.


End file.
